Exile
by Chet-the-predalien
Summary: A "Bad Blood" Predator reflects on the circumstances that lead to his exile. Oneshot.


Predator is Copyright to Fox. Wolf is mentioned in this story, see if you can spot him. And yes, I am using the term "Hish", if only because I want do use a name other than Yautja.

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Silence had long ago been something that the Hunter had learned to endure. Loneliness as well, and although he had always been one who walked his own path and followed his own way, the lack of contact with others of his own kind had been eating at his heart. Many Hish chose to hunt alone as a matter of preference, simply seeing the act of stalking as something to be experienced alone, a private affair unless family is involved after all what better was there to celebrate the birth of a new hatchling, the union of two bloodlines, the death of a hated enemy, or peace between two warring clans than with a grand hunt? Exile on the other hand was something else all together. Only allowed into the outskirts of Hish territory, and even then never allowed to contact other members of his race to barter with food or other supplies, the Exile had long ago learned to be self sufficient to survive. In the depths of his resting pool, in the thick and soupy liquid which was meant to simulate the swampy pools in which he had been raised, The Exile mused on what it meant to be branded a criminal.

Hish politics where as treacherous as a raging river or a high cliff. There where always times when such dangerous obstacles needed to be braved to achieve a set goal, be it to gain access to prey or achieve further status in the Clan or Tribe that one belonged to. And much like the cold rivers, so merciless and eager to swallow you whole, or the uncaring cliff face, apathetic to your plight, one misstep, one single careless mistake, could undo you and everything you had worked so hard to achieve. Such was the Exile's careless blunder, a misspoken word, and a carelessly mistyped apology had put him in a position of vulnerability. The Elder he had so carelessly insulted had had friends in all the right places, and a single infraction during a hunt had been blown so wide out of proportion that he had been taken to court, and he had been branded a traitor, a heretic, a Betrayer of The Hunt. Had it not been for The Exile's own status he could very well have been executed on the spot by the tribunal members themselves. They would have gladly torn him apart and devoured him in sort order, after all, most Tribunals lived for the chance to devour the flesh of their kin.

Luckily for The Exile he had escaped digestion and had been sentenced to permanent imprisonment on a harsh desert world, which had recently been strip mined for more Clan Ships. The Exile had been given a scout ship, the weapons of an untested fledgling, and had been cast out of the known territories, forced to hunt primitive and desolate planets with poor game and little interest for a hunter of his skill. He doubted his release was authorized, then again, he doubted The Elder who imprisoned him cared, or even remembered the young Hish whose life he ruined just to answer a slight. But The Exile remembered, he remembered the crimson cloak, still new as The Elder has just been promoted to his station in the Clan, the deep wrinkles of his dark skin, scars crisscrossing his torso, one eye gouged from the socket, in it's place, a ball of precious metal of the darkest green to replace it. The tendrils allowed to grow long turn gray with age, the human skull dangling from his belt. And The Exile remembered as well, the Elder's "friends" who had made sure that The Exile's fate was sealed. One who's red armor gleamed as though it was made with jewels and not metal, with barely a scratch on it, he was either a coward or someone so vain that every scrape had to be meticulously buffed out and repaired. Another who had had a great portion of his face eaten away by the acid blood of a Night Breeder, a snarling brute who was a poor hunter and a worse diplomat, he had gained his status through virtue of his family's great standing .

And The Female.

Youngest of the three who had been sure to make the Exile's life a living hell (although still old enough to have whelped him) it was she who had convinced the other two to go with the plan. After all, the four stood to loose their lives, if a Tribunal felt that their time had been wasted on a case, they would not waste time in eating the Hish who brought the charges to their attention, but the female's wiles could extend to the same sex as well (Tribunals where almost always exclusively female) and through both manipulation of both the evidence and the cannibalistic judges, The Elder had gotten his way. Many night and days had The Exile pondered over this, what did these three stand to gain from this conspiracy? Or perhaps a better question to ask was what did the female, May Her Children Hatch Blind, stand to gain? And The Elder? One did not live long by being stupid in Hish society, and risking being eaten over something as silly as being insulted by a fellow clansmen of far less standing was not a sign of high intelligence. So perhaps there was another motive, a bigger one, perhaps the young hunter's exile was merely one part in a far grander political game. The answer meant little to The Exile, he dreamed only of revenge.

A revenge just beyond the corner, just out of reach, right across the next span of empty solar systems or waiting on a backwater planet. It was out there somewhere, as his father had said, the universe was always willing to open a door to you, you just had to be vigilant enough to see it.

And The Exile was very, _very,_ vigilant.

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And that's the introduction to The Exile, probably my only Predator OC. He'll take center stage in a upcoming fic I'm writing that takes place during the events of Requiem.


End file.
